On the Red Eye
by Trinity Everett
Summary: What might have happened if Royce had been killed after '47 Seconds.' Caskett.


**On the Red Eye**

 _ **Prompt:** To Love and Die in LA happens at some point between 47 Seconds and Always. (from castlefanficprompts)_

 _ **Notes:** This takes place kind of Pre-Limey but post 47 Seconds. This was originally posted on my tumblr last year. My apologies for neglecting to post it here._

* * *

When his phone buzzes against his thigh, he has half a mind to ignore it. He came to Vegas to get out of his head; picking up the phone for anyone but his daughter or his mother – and the only way they'd be calling right now is in the event of a catastrophe– seems like it'd be counterproductive.

Especially if it's Beckett calling.

The damn thing's insistent, though, and his fingers slip from the scotch he's been cradling for the last hour to swipe the condensation on his slacks before they dip into his pocket.

It's Esposito.

Why would Esposito be calling him?

The disappointed, wounded part of his heart urges him to silence the call and go back to his evening, to enjoying the sights and sounds of the vibrant Vegas Strip. They can get along without him at the Twelfth. They did long before he arrived, and they'll be fine long after he's gone. It's probably nothing serious anyway; Espo looking for Knicks tickets or a night with the Ferrari to impress a date. Hell, it's late enough in New York that it might be a drunk dial or a butt dial on the man's way home. He definitely doesn't want to hear what Esposito's up to if he's drunk or butt dialing him.

The call ends before he makes a decision, Espo's ridiculous picture giving way to the missed call notification instead. Satisfied, Castle slides the phone onto the bar, reaching again for his drink.

Let Esposito leave a message. He'll check it when he gets back to his room.

He just doesn't have the energy to deal with anyone from home right now. Not when every interaction feels suspect and every word exchanged, every moment of camaraderie, feels brittle and wrong.

All because of a lie. Her lie. She lied, and it cracked his heart and left it in a mess at his feet.

Yeah, he needs to get away for a few days.

Good thing he's here in Sin City. Maybe it'll help wash away her sin of silence, make it easier for him to not care.

He can do that. He can not care.

The scotch burns his throat on its way down, but he taps the glass to indicate another as soon as it's empty.

It's the first step to not caring, after all.

A little over an hour later, he shoulders his way through the door to his hotel room, feeling lighter than he has in days, but more unstable than ever. Probably – no definitely – the scotch's fault, but he'll take it. It helps.

It has him leaning to one side as his thick fingers fumble to put the chain on his door, but it helps.

At least until he tosses his phone onto the bed, inadvertently illuminating the screen to his notifications. Espo only called once, but then Ryan called just as Castle was settling his tab at the bar. Neither left a message, though, so he has no idea what he's expected to do.

At least for tonight, he's doing nothing. Let New York deal with silence for once.

Shrugging out of his jacket and toeing off his shoes, he joins his phone on the bed. He should change, but for now he's content to stay where he is, listening to the hum of the air conditioner. Bass thumps in the distance, the rhythm hypnotic enough to lull his tensions away.

So, of course, he fall asleep to the squall of police sirens. Even away from her, he can't get away from her.

–

Esposito calls again at 4 AM.

It takes two and a half tries, as sleep and the final vestiges of his nightcap make him clumsy, but Rick finally manages to answer.

"Castle."

"Bro, where the hell are you?"

Shoving his yawn into his fist, he blinks some of the sleep away. "I'm… in bed. Why?"

"It's Beckett."

Rick's heart stutters painfully, sobriety crashing down on him, and the switch he's been desperately trying to flip jolts right back into the 'On' position.

"What? Is she okay?"

"What? No, no, she's fine… physically she's fine. But Royce is dead and she's… you know what she's going to do."

His gut churns, settling infinitesimally with the knowledge that _she's_ not the one Esposito's calling him about.

"Look, we chased the leads out to Los Angeles, but Gates refuses to get into a jurisdictional pissing contest. So Beckett being Beckett announced she was taking personal time. Pretty obvious she's going out there."

Of course she is. That's Beckett, holding onto a lost love while he's been _right here_ waiting for her to see what they could be. The petulant side of him can't help but notice that doesn't even manage to compete with a man who broke her heart and betrayed her.

"Anyway," Espo continues, somehow not put off by his silence, "if you're not already packing, you should. Ryan checked the airline passenger manifests; she's on a 9:20 flight out of JFK."

Ahh, right. This was his job. Sancho Panza to Beckett's Quixote. Quixote in his own right, and Beckett the giants.

"She's gonna need you, bro."

Right. Like she's needed him for the last year.

"Alright," he says, scrubbing his face, feeling the pull of resignation. "Alright, I'll be there."

He'll go to her, even if she doesn't want or need him there.

–

He picks a flight that gets to LAX just before hers, giving him time to intercept her at the bottom of the elevator. It's a ridiculous facsimile of a homecoming, waiting for a lover to return after a journey, but he stays right there, arms propped on his rolling bag and feigning nonchalance even as Beckett's face betrays her. She's weary; her eyes tired, reddened from lack of sleep and possibly tears as well. Her shoulders are hunched from too much time spent crammed in a tiny seat – probably the middle – and a part of him wants to reach for her, to kiss the purple circles cleverly hidden by foundation, to massage her aching muscles until she's boneless under his hands. He doesn't, though, he can't; she doesn't feel the same and he's just here as her partner.

The switch is caught somewhere in the middle.

"What are you doing here, Castle?"

Lifting a shoulder, he steps out of the path of other passengers eager to get to their bags. "Thought you could use some backup."

It's all he says. No joke about making it an exciting undercover operation, pretending to be honeymooners or spies infiltrating the seedy LA underbelly. He just doesn't have it in him right now.

"I don't have jurisdiction here. I'm completely off-books," she hedges, running her fingers through her travel matted hair.

Castle shrugs again. "Welcome to my world. Point is, you could use someone watching your back and I'm your guy. Take me or leave me."

The last part gets tacked on without his consent, almost like a challenge she doesn't know he's issuing.

Much to his surprise, there's no indecision in her eyes or on her face when she nods. There's no indecision when her fingers slip into the crook of his elbow.

"Do you have a car?"

"Uh huh. Reserved it while I was waiting for you. I think we'll fit right in in it."

She's not that amused when they hand him the keys to a Ferrari a few years newer than his own. But at least he gets to drive.

The ride is silent, save for the occasional direction or case detail she wants to share. It's odd, discomfiting even, but he can't bring himself to be the one to break through the wall – another fucking wall – between them. It's hard enough putting on the brave face with the memory of her fingers curled against his jacket, branding him with her touch, the fact that she's practically shut herself off at this point only makes it worse.

It isn't until later, after hours of chasing leads and scrambling across the city that he sees her give way even a little bit. And he cares, even though he tells himself he shouldn't.

He cares as they flop down on the sofa – his bed in the suite she wouldn't let him upgrade – and open their takeout, and he sees the nearly hidden tremor in her hand.

He cares as she shuts her eyes and breathes deeply, trying to get a handle on her emotions when she notices him watching.

He cares as they talk about the case, as he weaves a story for Royce's actions, painting the man as a far, far more selfless person than he thinks he actually was.

He cares as she speaks, "I was so in awe of him, Castle, when I first met him. I just hung on his every word. And then later I realized he was just making up stories to mess with me."

He joins in her laughter, watching her eyes grow far away. "I can't believe that I'm never going to see him again."

Jealousy burns through him, but his fingers move over her knuckles to comfort her anyway. He can't stop himself from caring. Beckett turns her hand over, squeezing his fingers tightly, allowing herself the luxury of his touch.

To say he's surprised is an understatement.

"You know what I thought when I first met you?"

"Hmm?" she murmurs, lifting her eyes to his again. They're troubled but focused on him, finally on him, and it makes him brave. It makes him want to say the things he thought they'd been working toward all along. The things her silence had shaken him out of believing.

"That you were a mystery that I was never gonna solve. Even now, after spending all this time with you I'm … I'm still amazed at the depth of your strength, your heart … and you hotness."

Her lips quirk, but she ducks her head to hide from his scrutiny, hiding from him. Again.

A moment later, she sucks in a breath. "Wait here," she orders. "Just… just wait here, please."

Beckett's fingers slip from his as she disappears into the bedroom.

What just happened?

She returns a moment later, lip between her teeth and a folded paper in her hands. He sits up a little, watching her as he would a skittish animal, wondering what his next move is.

"Lanie found this… in his things. It, I know something's weird lately with us, but it… you should read it."

Something's weird? Damn right something's weird.

"Castle," she murmurs, offering the paper to him again. "Please."

Silently, he takes it from her hand, opening it to read the words Royce left for her.

He feels her sit again, closer this time given how his weight shifts, but his eyes stay on her mentor's blocky handwriting.

The first part of the letter is what he expected, penance, apologies, promises to get his life together. She might be reading over his shoulder, because they both tense at the same time.

 _"And now for the hard part, kid. It's clear that you and Castle have something real. And you're fighting it."_

Is it? It had seemed clear, now it doesn't anymore. He reads on, willing his traitorous heart to remain skeptical. Royce didn't know her; he doesn't know her, not anymore.

Then again, Castle's not sure he knows her either.

Her fingertips press into his thigh as they both reach the end of the letter, silence settling between them.

"I'm… I'm very good at fighting for the dead, and for the families of the dead," she begins finally, clearing her throat. "But I'm not so good at fighting for myself. In fact I… actively fight against myself sometimes."

He can't dispute that. She's fought him time and again, sometimes at every turn, doing her best to keep him at arm's length. He knows why she balked in the beginning. He'd given her no reason to trust him back then, hiding any sincerity with a joke or an innuendo. Now he's more than that guy, more than Rick Castle the rich asshole, as he'd heard her muttering more than once when he first started shadowing her. But he's not sure she sees that, even after everything they've been through; he's not sure they'll ever get the future he's hoped to have with her.

Beckett swallows. "And I know that. I know I'm not good at fighting for myself. So this… the past year's been about that. About recovering and learning to fight for myself… and by extension, for you."

She… what? What is she talking about? She _lied_ to him for almost a year. That's not _fighting_ for him.

"I know. It's… it sounds stupid to say it out loud. But that's… why I didn't tell you." Her thumb slides against his leg, distracting him from the brain-muddling confusion, from his hurt and his anger.

"Tell me what?" he croaks, too stunned to play dumb.

He finds himself under his partner's scrutiny.

"I remember the shooting. I remember," her breath hitches, "you asking me to stay with you, and I remember you saying you love me." She bites her lip. "And I just… I needed to process and to deal with it –"

" _Deal_ with it?" That forces him out of his stupor. Reflexively, he shifts his leg away from her touch.

She gapes helplessly. "That's not… I meant deal with the shooting. Not," she stops, ducking her head and letting her hair fall over her face. "Not what you said. That I just needed to process. I needed time to know if I'd made it up to make myself hold on, or if you'd actually said it. I couldn't trust my own body, I didn't know if I could trust my own brain."

"I hear asking helps," he snaps. "Hinting, anything but disappearing for months without a word and flat out lying. I _asked_ you if you'd remembered and you lied to me. I'm a big boy, Beckett. Just tell me you don't feel the same and we can move past it. No reason to keep dragging this on and on, and no reason to let some kid know before I do."

"You mean like you told me the truth about Smith, your deal, and whatever the hell else you've been doing with your murder board and my case?" she asks, voice even.

"I, I," he sputters, trying to keep his surprise under wraps. "That's different."

"Is it? It's keeping secrets, no matter what the reason. I think I have every right to be livid with you, too. But I'm not. Not anymore." Her eyes lift to his, damp but hard. She's steeled herself for this fight, whatever this fight may be, and he can't help but deflate with the reminder of his own omissions. "I lied. I was hurting, I was scared, and I fought against it because that's what I had to do to keep my head above water most days. But it was _not_ because I don't feel the same."

She straightens. "And I know it hurt you, but instead of running off to Vegas like a wounded animal with a limitless Visa, you should've said something."

Hackles raised once more, Castle laughs. She's one to talk about running away instead of just saying something.

"Yeah, I know," she exhales, sinking a little bit under the weight of their words. "I know. And I'm sorry. For whatever it's worth at this point, I love you, too."

Just like that, the fight leaves him, swept away with the quiet clarity of her words.

She loves him?

"You do?" he squawks. He's never been very good at the rough exterior anyway, at least not with her. With her, his heart stays pretty firmly on his sleeve.

She looks down at her hands, rubbing her thumb along the lines on her palm. "Castle, I've been in therapy since I went back to work. The day I froze, when you _saw_ me freeze, it made me realize I wasn't better and I wasn't going to be better unless I worked for it. So I worked to hold my gun without my hand shaking, and I worked to avoid flinching anytime there's a reflection off in the distance, and I worked on that damn wall inside me because you were fighting for us and I needed to be, too."

Her shoulders lift toward her ears, defensive even as she's opening up to him. Kate Beckett, the constant contradiction.

"There's just never been a good time to come clean until now."

"Say it again," he orders, emotion roughing his voice more than he'd like. It startles her, the intensity; it has to, because her eyes dart to his.

"Castle –"

"Please, just… say it again. Fight with me. No more fighting against it, no more fighting separately, fight with me."

Maybe it's his words, maybe it's his tone, but her shoulders release and she faces him again. Finally.

A bashful smile touches her lips, but she doesn't break eye contact. She doesn't hide from him. "I love you, Castle."

"I love you, too."

Her eyes fill with what he can only call delight, pulling him into her orbit once more. Her fingers wiggle in search of his, and he hastens to give his hand to her, grounding them both.

"I'm sorry I lied. And I'm sorry you found out the way you did," she whispers, scooting across the leather to rest her forehead against his open collar.

His head dips, eyes slipping shut at the scent of her shampoo. So close, finally so close. "I'm sorry I hid or tried to hide. Vegas sucked, by the way. It was just one big pity party consisting of me doing terribly at poker and wallowing at the bar. Couldn't even pick up women, 'cause none of them were you."

Beckett laughs softly, but it's watery and largely humorless. It's the truth, though. They owe each other that much.

Speaking of truths…

"How did you find out? About… Smith and your case?"

Her fingers slide over his, changing her grip to pull their hands between them. Her heart thumps steadily against his skin, her warmth seeping into him through her top.

"Your mom. She uh, she'd had a lot of champagne the night of her one-woman show. You and Alexis were rearranging the furniture and she just kind of… blurted it out to me."

Damn it, Mother.

"They were going to kill you, Kate."

"And you should've told me that. Instead of steering me away with motivational speaking and half-truths. It shouldn't have come from your mother. Even if she did assure me a dozen times that your heart had been in the right place the entire time, it should've come from you."

"I thought you'd go running at it, even knowing the risks."

Castle feels her lips purse and braces himself for her anger.

"Are you investigating?"

"What?" He blinks at the non sequitur, looking down at the top of her head.

"Are you investigating in my place?"

He shakes his head. "No, no. I just… keep my ear out. I'm not investigating."

"Good." Beckett squeezes his hand firmly. "Keep it that way."

"As long as you do the same." It comes out rushed, insistent, and Beckett lifts her head to stare at him.

"I've been doing the same since September, Castle, don't sell me short. And no more secrets."

"I won't," he promises. "I won't."

"Fighting together, right?"

He just nods, wondering if maybe he's been asleep this entire time, passed out on the couch with a belly full of Thai takeout. Maybe none of this has even happened.

But it feels real enough as Beckett settles against him again. She feels real, the exhausted ache he always feels after battling with her. Logic tells him it has to be real.

"So what now?"

"Now," he muses, slipping his thumb against the soft cotton of her shirt, "now I think we should go to bed. Tomorrow we're gonna get the guy who killed Royce, and then we're going home."

"And we start over?"

"Kinda hard to start over, Beckett."

She deflates at that, nodding against his shoulder to hide her disappointment. "Yeah, you're right."

"But," Castle adds, slipping his arm around her carefully, giving her plenty of time to pull away. "I think we can go from here. I think the universe wants us to go from here."

"You do respect the universe."

His lips curl against her hair. "Yeah I do."

"Then let's go to bed," Beckett commands quietly.

He opens his mouth, not to protest necessarily, more to ask if she's sure, but she just gives a shake of her head.

"To sleep. This couch will ruin your back and I'm going to need my partner tomorrow, not Old Man Ricky."

"I'll show you old man," he mutters, feigning annoyance just to feel the gentle huff of her laughter against his throat.

"Mhmm, hopefully soon." She squeezes his hand, lifting her head to kiss the corner of his mouth. "Come to bed anyway."


End file.
